Horse Heaven (3 page)

The filly has not been easy to train, and Jack Perkins, who manages the training farm, is thinking of throwing her out in the pasture for another six months. Tompkins Worldwide Thoroughbred Breeding and Racing—Only the Best has plenty of pasture and plenty of water to keep it green.

Everything about them now is speculative, mysterious, potential. On the first of January, when they all turn two simultaneously, who they are, who they will become, how they will be known and remembered, or not, will begin to
take form. In a couple more years, everything will have been revealed—how they raced as two-year-olds, how they raced as three-year-olds, whether they manifested the hidden bonuses in their DNA or the hidden deficits, whether they deserve to reproduce or not, what they made of those who trained them and cared for them and rode them and owned them, and what those trainers, grooms, jockeys, and owners made of them. They are about to enter upon lives as public as any human life, lives as active and maybe as profitable, lives about which they will certainly have opinions, though they will never speak to the press, even off the record.

Jack decides, as he always does, that there’s plenty of time.

O
N THE SECOND
Sunday morning in November, the day after the Breeders’ Cup at Hollywood Park (which he did not get to this year, because the trek to the West Coast seemed a long one from Westchester County and he didn’t have a runner, had never had a runner, how could this possibly be his fault, hadn’t he spent millions breeding, training, and running horses? Wasn’t it time he had a runner in the Breeders’ Cup or got out of the game altogether, one or the other?), Alexander P. Maybrick arose from his marriage bed at 6:00 a.m., put on his robe and slippers, and exited the master suite he shared with his wife, Rosalind. On the way to the kitchen, he passed the library, his office that adjoined the library, the weight room, the guest bathroom, the living room, and the dining room. In every room his wife had laid a Persian carpet of exceptional quality—his wife had an eye for quality in all things—and it seemed like every Persian carpet in every room every morning was adorned with tiny dark, dense turds deposited there by Eileen, the Jack Russell terrier. Eileen herself was nestled up in bed with his wife, apparently sleeping, since she didn’t raise even her head when Mr. Maybrick arose, but Mr. Maybrick knew she was faking. No Jack Russell sleeps though movement of any kind except as a ruse.

Mr. Maybrick had discussed this issue with Rosalind on many levels. It was not as though he didn’t know what a Jack Russell was all about when Rosalind brought the dog home. A Jack Russell was about making noise, killing small animals and dragging their carcasses into the house, attacking much larger dogs, refusing to be house-trained, and in all other ways living a primitive life. Rosalind had promised to start the puppy off properly, with a kennel and a trainer and a strict routine and a book about Jack Russells, and every other thing that worked with golden retrievers and great Danes and mastiffs, and dogs in general. But Eileen wasn’t a dog, she was a beast, and the trainer had been able to do only one thing with her, which was stop her from barking. And thank God for that, because if the trainer had not stopped Eileen from
barking Mr. Maybrick would have had to strangle her. Rosalind, who sent her underwear to the cleaners and had the windows washed every two weeks and kept the oven spotless enough to sterilize surgical instruments, tried to take the position that the turds were small and harmless, and that the carpets could handle them, but really she just thought the dog was cute, even after Eileen learned to jump from the floor to the kitchen counters, and then walked around on them with her primevally dirty feet, click click click, right in front of Mr. Maybrick, even after Eileen began to sleep under the covers, pushing her wiry, unsoft coat right into Mr. Maybrick’s nose in the middle of the night. “Do you know where this dog has been?” Mr. Maybrick would say to Rosalind, and Rosalind would reply, “I don’t want to think about that.”

Mr. Maybrick was a wealthy and powerful man, and in the end, that was what stopped him. He knew that, in the larger scheme of things, he had been so successful, and, in many ways, so unpleasant about it all (he was a screamer and a bully, tough on everyone), that Eileen had come into his life as a corrective. She weighed one-twentieth of what he did. He could crush her between his two fists. He could also get rid of her, either by yelling at his wife or by sending her off to the SPCA on his own, but he dared not. There was some abyss of megalomania that Eileen guarded the edge of for Mr. Maybrick, and in the mornings, when he walked to the kitchen to get his coffee, he tried to remember that.

The first thing Mr. Maybrick did after he poured his coffee was to call his horse-trainer. When the trainer answered with his usual “Hey, there!,” Mr. Maybrick said, “Dick!,” and then Dick said, “Oh. Al.” He always said it just like that, as if he were expecting something good to happen, and Mr. Maybrick had happened instead. Mr. Maybrick ignored this and sipped his coffee while Dick punched up his response. “Can I do something for you, Al?”

“Yeah. You can put that Laurita filly in the allowance race on Thursday.”

“You’ve got a condition book, then.”

“Oh, sure. I want to know what races are being run. You trainers keep everything so dark—”

“Well, sure. Al, listen—”

“Dick, Frank Henderson thinks it’s the perfect race for her. A little step up in class, but not too much competi—”

“I’ll see.”

“I want to do it. Henderson said—”

“Mr. Henderson—”

“Frank Henderson knows horses and racing, right? His filly won the Kentucky Oaks last year, right? He would have had that other horse in the sprint yesterday if it hadn’t broken down. Listen to me, Dick. I shouldn’t have to beg
you.” This was more or less a threat, and as he said it, not having actually intended to, Mr. Maybrick reflected upon how true it was. He was the owner. Dick Winterson was the trainer. The relationship was a simple one. Henderson was always telling him not to be intimidated by trainers.

“We’ll see.”

“You always say that. Look, I don’t want to watch the Breeders’ Cup on TV again next year. Henderson thinks this filly’s got class.”

“She does, but I want to go slow with her. We have to see how the filly—”

Mr. Maybrick hung up. He didn’t slam down the phone—he no longer did that—he simply hung up. If Dick had known him as long as Mr. Maybrick had known himself, he would have realized what a good thing it was, simply hanging up. And here was another thing he could use with his wife. He could say that if he didn’t have to pass all those turds in the morning he could start off calmer and his capacity for accepting frustration would last a little longer. It was scientific. When they didn’t have the dog, he had gotten practically to the fourth phone call without offending anyone. Now he got maybe to the second. He took another sip of his coffee, and called his broker, then his partner, then his general manager, then his other partner, then his secretary, then his broker again, then his AA sponsor (who was still in bed). This guy’s name was Harold W., and he was a proctologist as well as an alcoholic. Mr. Maybrick had chosen him because he was a man of infinite patience and because he knew everything there was to know about prostate glands.

“I want a drink,” said Mr. Maybrick. “There’s turds all over the house. I bet you can understand that one.”

“Good morning, Al. What’s really up? You haven’t had a drink in two years.”

“But I’m always on the verge. It’s a real struggle with me.”

“Say your serenity prayer.”

“God—”

“God—”

They said the serenity prayer together.

“Look,” said Al, “I got this pain in my groin—”

“No freebies. That’s the rule. My partner will be happy to—”

“It’s like water trickling out of a hose. I can’t—”

“You need to be working on your fourth step.”

“What’s that one again?”

“Taking a fearless inventory of your character defects.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Trying to get something for nothing is one of your character defects.”

“I never pay retail.”

“Then you need to work on your third step, Al.”

“What’s that one?”

“Turning your life over to your higher power.”

Mr. Maybrick cleared his throat, as he always did when someone said those higher-power words. Those words always made an image of Ralph Peters come into his head, the guy who used to be head of the Mercantile Exchange in Chicago, and who foiled the Hunt brothers when they tried to corner the silver market back in ’80. Peters was an Austrian guy. He had “higher power” written all over him, and he was the last guy Mr. Maybrick had ever feared. He would never turn his life over to Peters.

Harold went on, “Let’s think a little more about the last day. What about rage? Have you been raging?”

“Well, sure. A guy in my posi—”

“Should be filled with gratitude. Your position is a gratitude position. Thank you, God, for every frustration, every bad deal, every monetary loss, every balk and obstacle and resistance.”

Harold often teased him in this way. Mr. Maybrick felt better for it, because it made him think Harold W. liked him after all, and it reminded him, too, of when his old man had been in a good mood. Joshing him.

“Every non-cooperator, every son of a bitch, every idiot who gets in my way, every slow driver, every—”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got to go to the hospital.”

“But I—There’s wine in the liquor cabinet.”

“Throw it out. I’ve got to go. The assholes are accumulating.”

Mr. Maybrick laughed. Harold W. laughed, too. Harold W. wasn’t a saint, by any means. He had been in AA for thirty-two years, at a meeting almost every day. Mr. Maybrick didn’t know whether to respect that or have contempt for it, but he knew for a fact that Harold W. was a force to be reckoned with, and he thanked him politely, ragelessly, and hung up the phone.

Now Eileen trotted into the room. It was clear to Mr. Maybrick that the dog was intentionally ignoring him. She clicked over to her bowl and checked it, took a drink from the water dish, circumnavigated the cooking island, and then, casually, leapt onto the granite counter and trotted toward the sink. “Get down, Eileen,” said Mr. Maybrick. It was as if he hadn’t spoken. Eileen cocked her little tan head and peered into the garbage disposal, noting that the stopper was in place. Her little stump of a tail flicked a couple of times, and she seemed to squat down. She stretched her paw toward the stopper, but her legs were too short; she couldn’t reach it. She surveyed the situation for a moment, then went behind the sink, picked up a pinecone that had been hidden there, and
jumped down. Only now did she look at Mr. Maybrick. She dropped the pinecone at his slippered feet and backed up three steps, her snapping black gaze boring into his. “I don’t want to do that, Eileen,” he said. Her strategy was to take little steps backward and forward and then spin in a tight circle, gesturing at the pinecone with her nose. But she never made a sound.

“You’re not a retriever, Eileen, you’re a terrier. Go outside and kill something.”

Indeed, Eileen was a terrier, and with terrier determination, she resolved that Mr. Maybrick would ultimately throw the pinecone. She continued dancing, every few seconds picking up the pinecone and dropping it again. She was getting cuter and cuter. That was her weapon. Mr. Maybrick considered her a very manipulative animal. He looked away from her and took another sip of his (third) cup of coffee. Now she barked once, and when he looked at her, she went up on her hind legs. She had thighs like a wrestler—she seemed to float. Mr. Maybrick had often thought that a horse as athletic as this worthless dog would get into the Kentucky Derby, then the Breeders’ Cup, win him ten million dollars on the track, and earn him five million a year in the breeding shed for, say, twenty years. That was $110 million; it had happened to others. He had been racing and breeding horses for eleven years, and it had never happened to him. This was just the sort of thing that made you a little resentful, and rightfully so, whatever Harold W. had to say about gratitude. He closed his eyes when he felt himself sliding that way, beginning to count up the millions he had spent running horses and thinking about deserving. With his eyes closed, Al could hear her drop the pinecone rhythmically on the tile, chock chock chock chock, the bass, her little toenails clicking a tune around it. Didn’t he deserve a really big horse? Didn’t he? And then, while his eyes were still closed, dog and pinecone arrived suddenly in his lap, a hard, dense little weight but live, electric. With the shock, he nearly dropped his coffee cup, and as it was, spilled on the counter. “God damn it!” he shouted. Eileen jumped down and trotted away. “Hey! Come here, Eileen,” he said. “Eileen!” Eileen sheared off into the living room, and he realized that he had forgotten to let her out. Mr. Maybrick put his arms up on the counter and laid his head upon them.

T
HOUGH IT WASN’T
customary for Farley Jones to find himself out with the first set of horses at 5:00 a.m. or so, he didn’t mind it today, for he hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and it was better to be up and about than lying in bed wondering what was going on with everyone who was up and about. Oliver, his assistant trainer, was home with the flu. They were working under lights, and the horses, the best group in Farley’s barn, were all galloping today rather than working. And he was alone in the grandstand at Santa Anita, and it was pleasantly quiet now that the hurly-burly of the Breeders’ Cup was over. The weather was good, too, for all the talk about the imminent arrival of El Niño.

It wasn’t until his horses were finished and trotting out, a good twenty minutes of blessed solitude, that anyone joined him, and that was Buddy Crawford, another trainer, with his assistant. They came abreast, like a sandstorm, bringing turbulence in with them, and Farley felt his body gear up to flee, then felt his mind resist that impulse. On the one hand, he wasn’t done looking at his horses, and on the other, there was something he had to say to Buddy Crawford that he hadn’t been looking forward to saying. He had sworn he wouldn’t seek an opportunity to say it or say it in front of any other trainers, and that condition now applied, and he was stuck. He put his hand on the railing to hold himself in Buddy’s presence. And then the horse he had been intending to discuss with Buddy trotted by below, grinding his bit and pulling, his ears pinned and his back end bouncing. When he got a hundred yards away, he reared up, but the exercise boy was ready for him and kicked him forward. Buddy leaned out and shouted, “Work five is all!” Then he turned to his assistant, handed him a slip of paper, and said, “Take this to the clockers’ shed.” The kid walked away. Farley’s sense of turbulence increased rather than diminished. “Hey, Buddy,” he said.